


Five, Ten, Fifteen Christmases later...

by Alliswell



Series: Christmas in Panem [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Post Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliswell/pseuds/Alliswell
Summary: Prompt by MegaAULover for the Christmas in Panem Exchange: “Katniss & Peeta having their first Christmas with their newborn or discovering they are pregnant. Or the Toastbabies are running wild.”Let’s meet the Mellark’s as they prepare for Christmas at home with their little ones.





	Five, Ten, Fifteen Christmases later...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MegaAuLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaAuLover/gifts).



> This is a work of Fanfiction. I own nothing.
> 
> All mistakes are mine.
> 
> For my dear R who’s probably getting surgery soon. Feel better boo. Merry Christmas!

I open my eyes to the pale light of winter leaking through the billowing curtains of the open window. There’s a faint sound of mischievous giggling in the background, and I’m pretty sure my motherly instinct is what brought me to wakefulness, because as my surroundings become clearer in my sleep deprived mind, a crashing of pans and pots shakes Peeta awake with a gasp.

He’s on his foot and running out the bedroom door before I can even lift the covers off me. I hear him rushing down the stairs and I’m instantly worried he’ll fall and break his neck since he’s hobbling on one leg, never having stopped to fit his prosthetic on.

I’m besides myself descending the stairs as recklessly as Peeta, clutching his false leg close to my body while my heart pounds loudly in my chest. Once my feet touch the floor, I hear the low hum of conversation. Peeta’s voice rough with sleep is calmed but firm. I barely make out what he’s saying until I’m standing fully in the kitchen that I hear the conversation clearly.

“... we can work on that after we pick up the kitchen. I’m not saying making Christmas cookies for mommy and the baby is a bad idea, but we should all eat breakfast first and you two should always ask me or mommy for help in the kitchen until you’re big enough to cook and bake on your own.”

I’m not sure how he’s doing it so steadily, but Peeta is crouching in front of our children, Poppy and Wheaton, one arm braced on the side of the kitchen counter, and his free hand gently cradling our son’s face.

Wheat is covered in flour from his curly blonde locks to his mismatched socks clad feet. While our boy is still in pajamas, our daughter is mostly cleaned and wearing leggings and rain boots under her nightgown and cardigan.

Poppy, our eldest, looks more chagrined at their father’s words than Wheat does, and knowing my children, I can assume the mess of spilled flour, whole eggs splattered on the floor and every single baking sheet and pan Peeta owns littlering the room behind my family, was Wheaton’s idea. Poppy may had try to either dissuade him, bossed him around or refused to help, just to cave into her little brother and followed him into this disaster.

Is the curse of the eldest child I think. You feel responsible for your younger siblings and try your best to keep them in check just to realize they have little minds of their own.

I smile fondly at the scene in front of me. The aggravation I felt towards Peeta for running ahead downstairs without attaching his leg on first finally ebbing away. I rub my protruding belly absently, wondering if this one will be as spirited as Wheat or as serious as Poppy. I chuckle inwardly, thinking of how much Peeta loves it when I’m pregnant during Christmas time, since he can shove whole trays of baked goods down my greedy mouth and ask for more. Peeta does love feeding me and the children.

Our third baby is a complete surprise unlike his or her siblings. We talked long and deep about having children before my decided to shove down my fears and ventured into parenthood with Peeta. Once Poppy was potty trained and chasing Haymitch’s geese unsupervised, we figured it was time for a sibling to play with, to love and fuss over. Wheaton came earlier than expected but he was such a little blessing. Now, this baby I’m expecting simply showed up one morning without fanfare or planning, but out of the three, this pregnancy has been the easiest on me. There has hardly been any morning sickness or lethargy, on the contrary, my appetite has doubled and my energy is up to the roof… and the same can be said about my drive in the bedroom. Peeta seems pleased in every front.

We’re due in 3 weeks and I can’t wait to meet my new angel. Just a few days after the New Year.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. We’ll help you clean up.” Says our daughter contritely.

Peeta turns his eyes on her. Hers are downcast so he releases Wheat’s chin to touch her’s. Matching blue eyes collide and ever the loving father, Peeta smiles.

“Thank you, sweetie. I truly appreciate it.” He says soothingly.

“But after we… after we clean up the ‘kinchen’. We hafta make cookies. The baby told me he wants cookies. Chocolate chippy cookies, with nuts.” Says Wheaton his eyes going round and big as his exaggerated story grows.

“The baby doesn’t ‘want’ chocolate chip cookies, Wheaton.” Poppy drawls rolling her eyes. “Mommy does. And she actually wants sugar cookies with Christmas icing and a Yule log.” Says our daughter with a superiority tone.

Peeta pinches the bridge of his nose before sighing heavily. “Guys, neither mommy, nor the baby asked for treats. But if you two want cookies and a Yule log, it’s fine. We can make them, but please, don’t speak on behalf of people when they haven’t said anything about it. That’s called fibbing, and fibbing isn’t nice.”

I snort making everybody jump and look in my direction. Peeta narrows his eyes at me in question, but I only shake my head ruefully trying to hide my smirk, because is not like I can reply with a sarcastic ‘Says the man who lied on national television about getting me pregnant at 17’. A moment later I see him squint his blue eyes to slits, and I know he’s thinking exactly what I was thinking, so he just pulls himself up with a flex of his strong muscular arm and mouths a “Shut up!” at me looking flustered.

I let him see my smirk then.

“Mommy! Tell Daddy that we’re not fibbing. You and the baby want chocolate chippy cookies!” Begs my son with pleading gray eyes same as my own and long blonde eyelashes he inherited from his daddy.

“Uh… no, mommy wants a Yule log.” Interrupts Poppy propping her fists on her hips with a sassiness I’m not sure where she pick it up from.

“Poppy, honey, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want a Yule log. I think cookies are a good idea though. We can make both Chocolate chip and sugar and—“

“But you said all you wanted lately was a daily ration of Yule log! I heard you telling auntie Jo when she came to visit!” Poppy groans stomping her foot and folding her arms over her chest.

As soon as the small outburst leaves my daughter’s mouth and her words sink in, my face starts to burn. I can feel the blush overtaking my face, ears, and chest. A very raunchy conversation with Johanna last week when she came to visit with her two youngest adoptive children, Ash and Jade, comes to mind.

It was all code and double entendres. The children were busy playing in the other room Jo’s teens, I hadn’t realized Poppy was actually listening in. A violent bout of coughs takes over me, raking my body ragged.

Peeta hobbles to me and pats my back until I stop, I look at him with pleading, embarrassed eyes, but his face is impassive until he turns to Poppy and frowns.

“Now, Poppy, was this a conversation mommy and auntie Jo had private?” He waits with arched eyebrows. We’ve teaching the children about privacy and personal space… they understand the concept, but with younglings there’s never either of those.

Poppy blushes a little and then her little shoulders drop. She nods but doesn’t say a word to explain herself.

“Were you eavesdropping on mommy and auntie Jo?” He asks a little more firmly.

Our little girl’s head whips up with wide blue eyes and she shakes her head adamantly. “I just wanted a drink of water, and auntie Jo was s’pposed to serve us drinks aaaaages earlier, but she took forever, so I came to the kitchen and saw mommy sitting on the stool with her feet up because her ankles are too fat, and auntie Jo was making everyone crackers and cheese, so I went back to tell everyone that food was coming”

I feel like my face is burning.

Children say the darndest things!

Peeta speaks slow but clearly, “Pumpkin, mommy’s ankles aren’t fat. Her feet are swollen because she spends too much time standing on her feet doing things for all of us, because she loves us and she’s nice, but the baby in her tummy is heavy. But even if mommy or anybody else started to gain weight, Is not nice to call them fat. Understand?” He looks between the two children because it’s a teaching moment for both, and when they tell him they understand, he follows up.

“Now, I want Poppy to apologize to mommy for listening in on her private conversation with aunt Johanna. Then, I want you both to go upstairs to change your clothes while mommy and I will clean this up. We may make some pancakes for breakfast and after lunch we can make some Christmas cookies for the neighbors. Alright?”

Both children agree wholeheartedly and Poppy gives me a hug and mumbles an apology against my protruding belly. In a minute, Peeta and I are left alone in the messy kitchen. I chance a glance at him and hand over the prosthetic I still have in my hands. As soon as the kids’ feet sound on the floor above, his face takes this teasing shade as he shifts his gaze to me. A mischievous smirk curls his lips.

Peeta finishes affixing his leg on and in one practice move, pulls me flushed against him. “So you’re craving my Yule log, huh?” Is more a grunt than his normal cadence.

Ugh! I was hoping he wouldn’t had pick that up and I could’ve pretend nobody had figured out the meaning behind the whole thing. I almost believed I was in the clear too since his face remained impassive while he spoke to Poppy. I should’ve known better… nothing throws him! He’s perfected his facial expression concealment down to a science by now.

“Peeta!” I paw him on the chest bashfully. I can feel my cheeks burn. “The kids…” I say weakly.

“Are upstairs for about ten more minutes.” He arches his eyebrows. “I can show you your treat right now, stock up those cravings.” His voice is low and dark in my ear, but his wiggling his eyebrows suggestively which does very little to stop the swoop in my stomach.

I laugh nervously, slapping his chest with more intention. “Stop it! That’s for later.”

“You bet it’s for later.” He laughs heartily and kisses me soundly. He lets me go, but smacks my behind before I’m too far, making me yelp in surprise.

Peeta flexes his fake leg once to activate all the little sensors it has built in. This one is his third prosthetic actually. Beetee fitted him with a new one when his original Capitol made one started to feel small and Peeta’s steps were uneven. Peeta grew quite a bit in the few years following the rebellion, reaching his final adult frame and size around the age of 21. He put so much more bulk on that he had to refitted for a new prosthetic. I was never a vapid girl fanning over boys, but I remember the sight of 20 year old Peeta kept me hot and bothered all day long and we went at it like rabid bunnies for a very long period of time.

30 year old Peeta was also a panty-drenching sight. It’s the most muscular I’ve ever seen him. I used to salivate watching him kneading bread so much I avoided going into the bakery for a while until he confronted me about it, since I actually have a shift in the shop we’ve been running together since we got married. He was so smug and horny he actually dragged me all the way back to the bakery to make love to me in every surface available. He made me orgasm so many times that day that I fell asleep curled up in the chair at his office desk while he sanitized the places we defiled earlier.

What can I say? My husband just keeps getting hotter and hotter as years pass by. Even now at 37, Peeta looks so delicious with the smattering of gray hairs sprinkling the ashy blonde waves at his temples and those laugh lines carved around his eyes and mouth that talk of life well lived. He’s more handsome now than ever, and all I want to do is climb him like a tree and ride him to oblivion… which is probably how we ended up with child number three in my belly.

If it wasn’t for the noises coming from upstairs hinting that our time alone is almost up, I’d pounce on Peeta right now and take that Yule log right here.

“Later!” I tell him meaningfully, biting my lip just as the children come crashing down the stairs like a natural disaster. And he returns the gaze heavy with lust and promises for later.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mommy, mommy, I got a ‘be-tiful’ pokey cone.”

“A what?” I turn to Wheaton to see what’s he talking about. I can’t wait for him to have a clear speech.

“A pokey cone! Look it!”

My son hands me a beautiful pine cone, so big he has to hold it up with both pudgy hands.

“It IS a beautiful pine cone, Wheat. Well done!” I tell him and gather him in my arms planting a sweet kiss on his forehead.

Wheaton giggles and scampers away. “I’m getting more, mommy. I wanna be like you and love trees!”

I follow him with my eyes as he hurries behind a tall maple in the very edge of the woods. I’m laughing at his enthusiasm, and think of how my life has changed for the better.

I pick up some greenery and reminisce.

Peeta has perfected every Christmas treat and recipe he’s come across in the last 20 years. He knows what sells and what people crave, and he also knows the right way to introduce a new concept or experiment. He’s clever that way.

The second year after Christmas was reintroduced into our society, Peeta brought home a few books about plants he requested from Plutarch. The old Gamemaker was quick to please as long as he could run some kind of cooking special with Peeta baking some treats and “teaching” the audience how to do it themselves at home.

I snorted at the boldness at first, but Peeta actually thought about it and agreed at the end. When he presented me with the books, he told me, in his shy Peeta way, that there were a few plants linked with Christmas and that he’d love it if took a look and pointed him in the right direction to get them. He wanted to decorate properly that year.

He hooked me into studying plants associated with Christmas. He knew perfectly well he handed me a guide to my one weakness: nature. He was right. I adore all the greenery of the season, the bold colors and the fact that the plants are easily found in the wild and can survive even the harshest winters. My kind of plants for sure! With made it a tradition to wait for Johanna and go into the woods for a suitable Christmas tree, then we would gather holly branches with the biggest berries, pine cones and pine needles followed.

Poinsettias are trickier to find in the wild, so we ordered them special, and even then we had to pay a premium for them on the first round.

The plants became more commonplace after that blasted cooking program Plutarch pushed Peeta to make. We used anything we could think off to decorate the kitchen and when Plutarch saw how festive our bakery was, he almost wept. He claimed ratings for his channel was going to break records. I refused to be shown in the taping.

The show really was a hit and all my decorations became famous enough that had to make a reluctant appearance in each Christmas special they had until they stopped the program the year Poppy was born, which was just as well. We weren’t about to go on TV when they kept pushing and demanding footage of our brand new baby. Peeta announced his retirement through an independent media source— perks of being close friends to Cressida and Pollux— and politely, but very firmly, he stated that a line was drawn at the privacy of our child. It doesn’t discourage the occasional staring and unwanted attention, but the residents of District 12 are a very protective sort, cameras can’t follow us here, and since my house arrest lifted some 5 years earlier, we haven’t gone too far from home.

There have been leaked pictures of the children of course. We can’t possibly help every single one out, but we try to keep them away from all that life of publicity as much as we can.

“Mommy,” calls Wheaton, “I think I love the woods. They’re as pretty as you!” My little boy holds out his tiny arms and I melt at the sight, gathering him up to me.

Out of my two children, Wheat is the adventurer woodsman, while Poppy is happier inside with crayons and crisp sketching paper, although lately she’s been asking to share Peeta’s art supplies and he’s all but ecstatic about it. Maybe the third one will be the baker.

“Let’s go home, little man. I think we have enough material to decorate the house for Christmas.”

At home awaits us a roaring fire, hot chocolate and Peeta with Poppy and cheese buns. I know we will have so many more mornings like today in the next few days where the children will make a mess in the kitchen wanting to make treats to share with neighbors and classmates. Johanna is scheduled to come soon with her 7 adoptive children, almost all of them older than we were after the war, and Haymitch who’s aged more than we expected in the last few years, will have Effie join us as well.

My mother and Annie will come for the New Year. Annie’s son will come as well. He’s just like Finnick physically, it almost hurts to see him, yet, he’s his own person, sweet and caring, but still very down to earth. He’s got a fiancée now… his father would be proud.

Upon walking onto the stoop of our house, Poppy rushes to open the door for us brandishing a huge canvas, almost as big as herself. “Mommy, mommy, look! Daddy let me paint my own portrait today. It’s you wearing poinsettias in your hair!”

I’m surprised by how great the painting is. “This is… beautiful, sweetheart.” I tell her and hug her.

She’s talking a mile a minute about how her father explain techniques and helped her squeeze paint on the palette for her, and how they hid her dress away after it got terrible stains, and I laugh looking at Peeta who’s leaning his shoulder in the door jamb shaking his head ruefully, and then Wheaton is shouting about a hare we saw on the trail and how he picked up a holly branch without poking his fingers with the thorny leaves.

I’m laughing. We go inside our house, and all I can think is, my life turned out to be pretty amazing after all the heartbreak. Later, when the children are in bed,and Peeta and I had have our alone time an a few earth-shattering releases, I crown my husband with a Christmas wreath made special for his head. I used the best looking greenery and berries I could find for it.

“What’s this for?” He says chuckling, while trying to pull me to him under the covers of our bed.

“It’s a token of gratitude, I guess, for bringing joy, hope and many great memories to my life.” I lean in and kiss him. “Thank you for pushing Panem to rediscover Christmas. It was a good thing.”

“I agree.” He says and kisses me back. “All good things should be brought back into our lives. I’m glad we are able to experience the good after the bad.”

“So do I.”

“Merry Christmas, Katniss.”

“Merry Christmas, Peeta!”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at tumblr@alliswell21.


End file.
